


Diplomatic Relations

by Thorinsmut



Series: Free Orcs AU [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU: free orcs, AU: no arkenstone - no gold sickness - no smaug, Anal Sex, Casual Sex, Complete, Consentual Azog/Thorin, Diplomacy, Interspecies, M/M, Past Slavery, Proud Dad!Azog, Size Kink, Smut, Warg pups, anti-orc racism, lots of talking, not a romance just a fling, oddly fluffy, trade negotiations, unlikely friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:51:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erebor prospers.<br/>The arkenstone was never found, the sky is free of dragons, and the royal line free of any madness. </p><p>The Orcs meanwhile waged a bitter civil war, but now a group of free Orcs have become a powerful trading force in the North. </p><p>Erebor agrees to host a diplomatic envoy from the free Orcs of Gundabad to discuss trading directly. </p><p>Mutual curiosity takes care of the rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this fic came from. It's been rattling around in the back of my brain, so I decided to finally let it out.  
> I know the pairing is a big notp for a lot of people, so please feel free not to read this fic.  
> That said - I will be doing my utmost to be sure it's all consensual and mutually enjoyable when we get to the smut - and yes, there will be graphic smut.  
> So hold onto your Wargs and Enjoy!  
> <3,  
> Ts

Thorin watched, hidden in the shadows, as _Orcs_ entered through the Great Gates of Erebor.

It took _all_ his self control to stay still and silent, when all he wanted was to take his sword in hand and drive the miserable, limping, sulking things back _out_ of his mountain.

He pressed himself back further into the shadows and watched the hideous creatures tread where no Orc should ever have set foot.

It was the Orc wars that started it. The Dwarves of Erebor had paid them little mind, other than to wonder if it might be possible to take back some of their ancient kingdoms with the Orcs occupied slaughtering each other.

In the end they did not. The Dwarves prospered in Erebor and the Iron Hills and in places south and east, and had no need for more.

The most cautious voices warned that, even with the Orcs weakened, there was still a Balrog in the depths of Moria.

The Orc wars raged for decades, and their gradual deescalation into smaller and smaller skirmishes was paid as little mind as their starting.

It was not immediately obvious that there had been any change in the world. There might not have been any change at all if the lives of Men were not so short, and their memories shorter.

It started with the furs, thick and rich and white as snow, that began to come to Erebor, traded from Men. The prices were exorbitant but Erebor was prosperous and the furs were magnificent – the pelts of wolf and bear and fox and weasel. When pressed for the source the whisper came back.

The free Orcs of Gundabad. Orcs with no tie to Mordor.

It was impossible, of course. Orcs were just _Orcs,_ and not even Men were foolish enough to trade with them. They had found a tribe of their own kind, ugly to them, and called them Orcs.

They could not have meant _Orcs_.

There was fine ivory, too, and thick bone for carving, and rare salted meats, and vats of thick-rendered fat.

...and always they were from the free Orcs, or the northern Orcs, the Orcs of Gundabad but that was not possible.

There was sweet ambergris for perfume, worth more by weight than gold, gathered from the coasts of Forochel by Lossoth Men – traveling south and east by way of trade with the free Orcs.

Later there was the mohair – the finest kid mohair to spin into thread for gleaming lacework shawls that caught the light like nothing else, soft and lightweight but incredibly warm – thicker mohair for coats and jackets, and the thickest mohair from older animals suitable for the finest of rugs and the brightest of tapestries.

They said it came from the Orcs' angora goats, but that was impossible. Who ever heard of Orcs raising anything but Wargs?

Finally there was the dye. Tyrion purple. Royal purple. The rarest of colors that never faded and would only brighten with wear. It was worth more per ounce than rubies.

It was said the Orcs had learned the secret of raising the snails it came from. By then the Dwarves had taken to understanding claims of Orc trading partners as cover for when the Men didn't want to disclose a source for fear the Dwarves would want to trade with them directly.

The Dwarves of Erebor had managed not to believe it until the Men they traded with began to hire Orcs as caravan guards.

Erebor had been thrown into chaos at the realization.

There had been calls to reject all trade with anyone who traded with Orcs, to reject any goods that came from them – but by then the demand was already too high in the craft guilds. The spinners and weavers protested any threat to their mohair supply, the dyers were up in arms about the loss of Tyrion purple, the tailors and leatherworkers would not hear of giving up the white furs, and the carvers demanded their right to purchase the bone and ivory they needed for their crafts.

There was anger among the nobility that the Dwarves of Erebor, the greatest kingdom of Middle Earth, were expected to dress less richly than mere _Men,_ but the breaking off of trade might _still_ have happened if the second most powerful guild, the smiths, had not shut down the great forges to protest the loss of the fat they needed for greasing their mechanized bellows. It was perhaps an overly dramatic gesture, but it successfully ended all talk of rejecting trade.

For a time Erebor was content to trade with the Orcs through Men, though no Orcs were _ever_ allowed through the Great Gates. Orcish caravan guards stayed _outside_.

For a time Erebor traded with the Orcs through the Men, but the prices of the luxury goods were exorbitant – and soon enough there was demand for _direct_ trade. To cut out the middle, since the _source_ of the goods was now known.

Were the choice left to Thorin, he would _never_ have allowed it.

The choice was not _his_ , though. He was merely Prince and had less say than his father Thrain, the Crown Prince, and far less than Thror the King.

Thorin would never have allowed it, but Thror had spent a lifetime listening to the guild heads. When a courier and herald of Men delivered a missive from the Free Orcs of Gundabad asking to send a diplomatic envoy to discuss trade – Thror listened to the grasping greed of the guild heads and _accepted_.

So here Thorin stood, shadowed in a spot he and Frerin had discovered was good for watching the Great Gate as children, unseen as long as he stayed still, and watched _Orcs_ hobble their hideous way into Erebor.

And he was powerless to stop them.

He turned away, too sickened to see more, sinking further back into the shadows and walking away.

He did not have the _heart_ to watch.

He was glad that he'd _already_ gotten rid of every piece of clothing he owned that had been made with Orcish goods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge that I have been inspired by thecutestscribeoferebor talking about free Orcs, and HobbitDragon reblogging consentual!Thazog art, and discussing possibly making a mega-AU to make consentual!Thazog possible during the Hobbit Holiday Exchange. Even though I did not end up writing this pairing for the exchange, it started the idea marinating.  
> Also thanks to heliotropa, mousezilla, and asparklethatisblue for helping me figure out what trade goods the Orcs could believably have.  
> And thanks in advance, and once again, to HobbitDragon who has been helping me figure the smut out. I think it's going to be good.


	2. Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin makes some observations.

The Orcs – awful hunched _twisted_ things – were sickeningly polite in official audience with the King and the guild heads. They cringed and bowed low and spoke carefully and were careful to give no offense, as oily as diplomats or traders of _any_ race. It was hard for Thorin to stand by and watch them, when all his instincts and training told him he was only ever supposed to meet those creatures at the end of a sword.

The ones who came to meetings were polite to royalty and guild heads, they were clearly diplomats. But not _all_ the Orcs were diplomats, they'd brought guards with them, and what might _they_ be like?

After his turn at the forges, Thorin did not change from his plain working clothes, did not change his braids from his simple smith braids.

The Dwarf who wandered curiously toward where the Orcish delegation were housed was not marked as royalty, was not even marked as _noble_. He was just another smith – maybe a little taller than most – with a heavily scorched leather apron and a set of hammers on his belt. Ri was a common enough name ending, if he left the n off his name...

It wouldn't be the first time he'd done it. Thori the smith was seen on the streets of Erebor often enough – and while there were those who knew or guessed who he was, they were too polite to mention it, and most did not realize.

He found he was not the _only_ Dwarf who was curious about the Orcs. An acquaintance caught his eye and led him up to a balcony that overlooked the Orcish delegation. It was not _crowded_ , but there were a fair number of Dwarves up there, just watching.

Thori quietly greeted those he knew and settled in to watch too.

It wasn't _right_ , Orcs in Erebor, and he murmured as much to a few quiet agreements, but also a few disagreements as the quality of the Orcish goods was mentioned – weaver's guild, he noticed, with an intricately woven mohair band decorating the sleeves of hir coat. It was a small disagreement, not enough to cause an argument, and they all settled on the balcony.

The Orcs weren't doing _much_ , a few of them were sparring, while most were sitting around lazily.

Someone had a pipe and passed it around companionably – it was a mild blend, imported from the Hobbit lands to the west unless he was mistaken, and the owner of the pipe confirmed it when he asked.

Thori settled in to watch, enjoying the companionship of people who expected nothing of him.

 

Other than the _wrongness_ of seeing Orcs inside the mountain, watching them sit around doing nothing was boring. Thori was considering excusing himself and finding something else to do when there was an excited whisper through the balcony.

“There he is, here he comes!”

Thori scanned the Orcs to see _what_ everyone was talking about, and saw the pale Orc for the first time.

He was a _giant_ , striding out of the Warg enclosure. He bore symmetrical scars across his enormous chest and on his face. He was missing his left hand, replaced with a cruelly-shaped claw that had actually been shoved _through_ the remaining flesh of his forearm – the crudest form of a prosthesis. He moved with _presence,_ the way Thorin had been trained to – commanding a space with sheer force of will and deadly intent – the opposite of how he presented himself when he was out as Thori. The pale Orc surveyed the Orcs of the delegation, then lifted his eyes to look directly at the balcony – the first Orc to acknowledge that they even _knew_ there were Dwarves there watching.

He exchanged a few harsh-grating words with a few of the Orc guards, his voice more than half feral growl, and then ducked down and squeezed through a doorway that was _more_ than tall enough for Men or Elves and was lost to sight.

Thori wasn't the only Dwarf who found themselves _breathing_ again as if they'd forgotten to.

“Who was that?” he asked.

The Orc who seemed to be in charge of caring for the Wargs and to also possibly be the one in charge of the Orc's guards, Thori was given to know, the other Orcs seemed to call him _Azog_.

“Azog.” the name tasted harsh on Thori's tongue.

Azog, the monster amongst monsters.

Thori the smith left, and Thorin the Prince returned to the palace with a mind full of questions.

 

Thori returned often to watch the Orcs.

The balcony's view was soon not _enough_ , was too limited, and with a few other young Dwarves Thori found himself climbing down closer. They settled all laying on the edge of a roof, peeking over at the Orcs.

Azog still saw them, and it took a surprising amount of willpower not to duck down with the rest of the Dwarves – to meet the Orc's pale blue eyes without flinching.

Even that roof was too limited, and Thori found another, one with a view into the Warg enclosure. It was too close for most watchers, so he almost always watched alone from there when he used that space.

Azog spent a lot of time in with the Wargs, spending the most time with one that matched him in both pallor and unusual size, but caring for all of them. He would throw the carcasses of entire hogs to them as easily as if they weighed no more than rabbits and laugh a hoarse booming laugh as they ripped them apart.

The Orcs seemed to eat almost nothing but meat, with only a little bread to go with it and almost no vegetables. There seemed to be a pair of cooks, smaller Orcs that Thori had classified in his mind as younger though there was no way of knowing. They skulked around together and seemed to be afraid of _everyone_ , and Thori wondered if the tales of Orcs eating their cooks if they didn't like the food were true.

The Orcs seemed to discuss things all together when their diplomats would return from their meetings. The cooks would bring food and drink out and they would all – from Azog to the cooks – sit in a circle and talk in their hard grinding speech.

Sometimes, on days when there were no meetings for the Orcish diplomats to attend, the entire delegation would spar in their courtyard. Thori would sit on the balcony, or on the roof with a few other Dwarves, while wagers were made on who would win.

The Orcs' style lacked finesse, all bashing and backstabbing, but it made for more entertaining watching than Elves who were all style and no substance.

Thori made his bets and watched.

The Orc who tended to take the fore in negotiations, a twisted, crippled thing named Rukh, was fighting one of the larger guards. He was doing surprisingly well, quick with his long ropey arms and jagged dagger in a sideways hold. He drove the guard back relentlessly, while around them the rest of the Orcs chanted and shouted and laughed. Thori was _sure_ he'd lose his small bet when the guard got a lucky hit in on the side Rukh favored, the diplomat gasped, curling in toward it for just one tiny moment. The guard was not shy in using the opening. He sprang up to kick Rukh down, sending him sprawling and advancing on him with a scream and his sharp teeth all bared.

A single shout put an end to it, a stone-shattering bellow, and even Thori began to think that the roofline was _too close_ to be. Several of his companions sprang up to climb back to the balcony, but Thori stayed as Azog stood, advancing on the trembling guard Orc and the gasping diplomat. The other Orcs scattered out of his way.

One of the Dwarves still with Thori tried to make a bet they were about to see an Orc die, but Thori waved him off.

Azog spoke to Rukh first, just a few words and the diplomat nodded. He accepted a hand back up into his customary hunched posture and limped more stiffly than ever back into the building.

Then Azog turned on the guard, who cowered away from him as he stepped close, looming over him.

The enormous pale Orc shook his head once, his disappointment clear, dealing the cringing guard a hefty smack to the back of the head before he turned back to his customary sitting spot to watch the sparring.

Thori snorted a soft laugh at the ashamed face of the guard. He knew that feeling. He'd gotten much the same treatment himself from his own weapon masters when he'd been too rough sparring with Frerin or Dis before they caught up with him in skill...

His laugh caught in his throat and he turned away in horror, leaving by the quickest way that would cause no comment.

His stomach churned sour.

For a moment he'd looked at Orcs – _at Orcs_ – and seen _people_.

 

Thorin kept to the palace, and he begged off as much of the Orc negotiations as he could, finding other things to occupy himself.

Frerin had of course noticed that he'd been spending more time out as Thori, and noticed that he'd stopped. He feigned sympathy, teasing that Thorin had been rejected by his lover, since taking lovers the only reason _he_ ever disguised himself out in the city – not that the golden princeling was ever unrecognized.

Thorin tried to stay away. He _tried_. He did not want to watch Orcs – horrible filthy stupid creatures, they should never have been _here_.

...'Stupid' creatures who'd figured out how to raise the snails that yielded the richest of dyes? His traitor mind asked. Who's diplomats could politely talk even Balin around in a circle so one of the finest minds Erebor _had_ claimed keeping ahead of them left him exhausted?

...'Filthy' creatures who used as much soap and hot water as any other household of Dwarves of the same size? The diplomats had never been anything but scrupulously clean. Why _wouldn't_ Orcs be dirty if the only time they were ever seen was on a battlefield? No Dwarf could say they were clean there either, in the blood and the mud.

...'Horrible' creatures who chastised one another when they went too far sparring? Who ate family meals together just the same way the royal family did at least twice a week to discuss what important things were going on in their kingdom and their individual lives.

...'Creatures'? Or people?

Thorin roared and brought his hammer down on the knife he'd been crafting with all the force in his body – the red-hot metal crumpling into useless scraps.

If _none_ of that was true, then what _was_ true?

What _could_ be trusted?

The forge Master was making her way toward him now, a question on her face, and Thorin wiped his face with a forearm.

“Give me something to smash.” He requested hoarsely, and the forge Master nodded understandingly. She'd been dealing with royalty in the forges since before he'd been born. She set him up with a heavy sledgehammer and the roughest, most mindless of work – the sort usually given to apprentices as punishment.

He pounded the metal until the weight of the hammer burning through his muscles outmatched the burning of his thoughts, and in his exhaustion none of it seemed to matter so much anymore.

 

Thori the smith sat alone on a roof edge, overlooking the Orc delegation and watching the Wargs. Azog was sitting beside the big white warg, scratching behind its sharp ears and giving it an affectionate bop on the nose with one big finger when it snapped at him with its huge yellowed teeth.

He made a point of noticing Thori, the way he always did, when he strode out of the Warg enclosure.

He paused this time, and Thori did not break contact with those pale blue eyes.

“Come.” Azog said, reaching his hand out toward Thori – the first time he'd heard him use anything but the Orc's language, “Meet the Wargs.” he invited in a voice like a growl.


	3. Lûl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding with Wargs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should be a mouseover translation of the Orc speech.

The Dwarf was watching. 

There were _always_ Dwarves watching. 

That was part of the _point_ of the whole thing – this as much a battle as any in the war. Azog had been there for the bloodiest of _those,_ always leading from the front lines. Mordor had thought to breed a general, but had never dreamed that he would lead his people _against_ it. They fought the armies of Mordor – their enslaved brothers and sisters – and if they paid with their lives, they at least died _free_. 

He had been there afterward, in the battle to _survive,_ when Orc and Warg alike froze and starved – cut off from the supplies that had always come to them and hunting not _enough_ , and always more and more Orcs finding their way to Gundabad, desperate groups who'd risked everything for their freedom. 

They'd starved, but those who died, died free.

He'd been there as they nursed what few livestock they could scrounge up, who would _survive_ the harshness of the northern mountains – scrawny goats with rough, ragged wool. 

He'd been there as they _finally_ thrived, as they bred their goats into big meaty animals and there was enough food for everyone. 

He'd been there as they realized how tenuous their position was – that they needed the support of the _other_ free peoples of Middle Earth, their former enemies, if they were to survive. They could not survive if they were enemies with both Mordor and the free peoples.

It had taken years, a battle of another kind, to make a trade agreement with a group of Men, and they were cheated – they knew that. They were paid a pittance for their goods, but they _knew_ they needed the trade agreement. 

The free Orcs of Gundabad needed to be _seen_ , to be _known_. 

They traded, and became at least a _little_ known, and they found groups of Men who'd trade with them and give them fairer prices for their goods. 

It had been a long hard road, but he was there as they finally began to live richer lives in Gundabad than they'd ever hoped for as slaves. 

Azog had been there in the meetings as they discussed how they _must_ become known for quality of their goods, or the other peoples of Middle Earth would never have cause to recognize them. It was another battle they had won – were _still_ learning to win. 

He was there as they learned the ways to tan the highest quality furs, as they bred their goats into beautiful fine-wooled beasts – and he was there when a clever little Orc refugee, still a child really, pulled a snail from a little gourd of water at her side and poked at it until it spit vivid purple across her fingers. She held her hand up for the council of elders to see as the most expensive dye in the world dripped from her hand. 

He was there when those first half-dozen snails multiplied under her care, and when three caravans of Men got into a bidding war over the first vial of Tyrion purple. 

Azog was there, watching, as always the finest of what the Orcs had went to trade and they made do with the rest – and even _the dregs_ were better than what they'd ever had before. As time went on the return on trade grew better as they traded with more and more Men and could afford to be choosy in the prices they would accept.

It had taken years to make a trade agreement with a group of Men. 

It took _decades_ to have even the chance to forge one with Dwarves. 

It would likely be centuries before they could with Elves – if they _ever_ could. It would not be happening in Azog's lifespan, certainly. 

He was here, in Erebor with the finest diplomats and traders Gundabad could offer, and being seen was a part of this battle. 

He understood it, but that did not mean he liked being stared at. He could not pretend, like the others, that the Dwarves were not there. He saw the Dwarves watching them, and let them _know_ he saw them. 

It was _hard_ to look at Dwarves and see anything other than an enemy. Their peoples had been at odds for uncounted generations – they were everything he had been born and bred to hate. 

Still – the Orcish delegation had been treated with nothing but politeness. _Wary_ politeness, but politeness. They were comfortably housed and provided with good quality meat for themselves and the Wargs. The traders and diplomats claimed that the Dwarves drove a hard bargain but were not trying to cheat them. 

High quality materials were a good way to impress Dwarves, and the free Orcs of Gundabad _had_ those. They had worked hard to be sure of that.

There were just always eyes watching them. 

There was one Dwarf in particular who'd caught Azog's eye – once he was sure he _was_ seeing the same Dwarf again and again. They all looked so _similar_ , but he'd become sure of this one. Most of the other Dwarves who watched seemed to lose interest and not return, but this one came back again and again and again. 

Azog almost suspected him of being a spy hired by the Dwarven royalty, but if so he had a poor opinion of their spies. He did not even _try_ not to be noticed.

He was small, just slightly taller than the average Dwarf, and all covered with thick dark hair which he wore braided up in the way of Dwarves. It was his eyes that set him apart, a clear cutting blue that _never_ looked away. He unfailingly met Azog's gaze like an equal. 

He watched them more, and from nearer, than any other Dwarf. 

Here he was again, sitting on the edge of a roof where he could watch the Wargs. He'd been gone for a time, but now he was back again and Azog was _tired_ of being silently stared at. He was tired of being entertainment. 

It was what he was here _for,_ mostly, but he was tired of it.

Azog was not _supposed_ to deal with any Dwarves, he was not a diplomat, but he still reached out. He broke the silent invisible wall between them and invited the Dwarf to acknowledge him, to meet him as a person. 

If he were so curious about Orcs and Wargs, he could come _meet_ them. 

The Dwarf held his gaze for a long moment before he inclined his head slightly in agreement and vaulted himself over the edge of the roof to land heavily down in the Orcs' courtyard. He drew his shoulders back and his head high, making himself as large and square as possible, and refused to lift his chin to look _up_ as he spoke, so his eyes were shadowed beneath his heavy brow.

“I am Thori.” he introduced himself, his voice deeply resonant – for his size. Azog smiled slightly – he'd not _expected_ the Dwarf to take him up on his offer. He hardly reached Azog's chest, and up close he smelled of hot fire and scorched metal and sweat.

“I am Azog.” he introduced in turn. 

“Well met, Azog.” Thori replied, his hand resting maybe unconsciously on the hammer on his thick leather belt. He was either very brave or very impulsive to jump into the Orcs' courtyard in a place where none of his kinsmen could see him – perhaps a touch of both. 

Azog turned and led the way to the Warg enclosure, leaning against the gate. The Wargs were all watching, wondering if Thori was food, but the Dwarf showed no sign of fear.

“ _Ninklûl._ ” Azog called, and his Warg yawned at him. 

“Lûl!” he chastised, and she heaved herself heavily to her feet to pad over curiously, sniffing through the gate at the Dwarf. Azog reached over to scratch her head. 

“This is Lûl.” He introduced, “She is mine. Let her smell your hands.” 

“ _Narish, Lûl_.” He instructed her, and she would only need be told once that Thori was an ally and not food. She would make no mistakes, and she'd see that the rest of the Wargs obeyed too. 

“She is beautiful.” Thori said, cautiously. 

“Now she knows you.” Azog told him, “you can touch her.” 

He'd expected the Dwarf to beg off, or cautiously touch her through the gate – not to scale up the gate to sit on the top beam and join his iron hand in scratching the top of her head. Thori ran his short thick fingers through her thick fur, gently touching the war scars on the head of a Warg who could easily eat him in two bites. 

Thori laughed, wonder on his face, and Azog suddenly wondered how _young_ he was. It was so impossible to tell with Dwarves, all hidden behind their hair. 

“She is _much_ larger than the others.” Thori observed, and he'd found the spot behind her ear she loved, the fiercest of Wargs practically melting beneath the Dwarf's scratching fingers. 

“The others are neuter males.” Azog explained, “or _young_ females. She is their Queen... and she is whelping soon.” his Lûl was heavy and round with it. 

Thori made an understanding noise and continued scratching for a moment before he paused, looking over at Azog questioningly. 

“She is pregnant?” He asked, and Azog nodded once in confirmation. 

“She was not supposed to be, but she is too clever.” He said. A litter of pups was not a complication they needed while they were in Erebor, but it was not too big a problem. They would deal with it. Wargs pups had been born in far worse conditions, and they would be big enough to keep up when it was time to return home to Gundabad. 

Lûl nipped at Thori's hand because he'd stopped scratching. He pulled it out of the way with another short laugh, though her teeth were bigger than his fingers. 

“Bad girl.” He mused affectionately as he resumed scratching. “Is there anything she needs?” he asked, “For the pups? Special foods?”

“The carcasses we are provided are enough. She gets enough heart and liver there.” Azog assured him – such a strange Dwarf, but Azog couldn't help but _like_ that his first instinct was to be sure Lûl was well cared for. 

“She would _like_ a small cave to whelp in, but she does not need it. Wargs have been born on battle fields.” 

“How big?” Thori asked, those sharp blue eyes sweeping the enclosure, the Wargs all lounging out on the rough stone. “Crawl-in small, or tall enough for her to walk in? Wide or narrow?” 

“She does not _need_ it.” Azog said again, but Thori was shaking his head. 

“I can speak to a few Dwarves – it would not be difficult to build a smaller room for her – dry set stone blocks...” Thori spoke as though he were used to being obeyed, and Azog again did not know how old he might be. He'd seemed young before, but not so much now with a task in his mind. He did not look _rich_ , either, though he spoke as though money were not a concern. He did not wear any of the gold and gems that Dwarves loved so much, his clothes were plain and simple, but _anyone_ could change their clothes. 

“How much would it _cost_ to have skilled Dwarves build something for _Orcs_.” Azog asked, and Thori snapped back into himself with a visible start, eyes wide as if realizing for the first time that he was speaking with an Orc. Maybe Azog's voice was rougher than it had needed to be, but while the Orcish delegation was treated politely, it was clear that most Dwarves had no desire to interact with them. They had little enough money to spend on things that were not necessary. 

“You have a point.” Thori acceded with a small nod, and returned to petting Lûl. She'd had enough of _him_ , though, and wandered away. She stole a bone to gnaw on from a lower ranking Warg and returned to lay in the place she'd claimed for her own with a heavy sigh. 

She would be more comfortable after she whelped. 

“If your diplomats mentioned the Warg pups in one of their meetings...” Thori mused, watching her, “...we Dwarves tend to be excited about babies. You might not have to _pay_ for a small cave to be constructed for her.” 

Azog made a noncommittal sound. He would prefer to keep things private, and he knew the diplomats agreed with him that it was best. It had already been discussed and decided. 

With Lûl no longer willing to be pet, and the rest of the Wargs ignoring them, Azog expected Thori to be done with his adventure – to excuse himself and leave. Instead the Dwarf stayed perched up on the top of the gate, his eyes weighing Azog as blatantly as they ever had, as though Azog were something he were trying to figure out. 

“Can you tell me more about Wargs and Warg pups?” Thori asked, and he seemed perfectly content to sit on the gate and talk until it was time for dinner, and he excused himself. 

 

The following day when the meat for the Wargs was delivered, there was an unexpected box with the pig and sheep carcasses. 

“For Lûl” it was labeled, and inside there were two ox hearts and a liver, along with a few thick unbroken marrow bones. 

They could only have come from Thori. He was an odd Dwarf, that was certain. Azog liked that he liked Lûl, and they'd had a good conversation, but he _still_ had the cooks with their more sensitive noses and palates smell and taste them. He only fed them to Lûl after he knew they were not poisoned. 

“A present for you from Thori!” he told her as she bolted the organs down and began to gnaw on a bone. 

It was a kind present, but Azog could not help but wonder what he hoped to gain by it. Maybe it _was_ just that Dwarves were excited about babies, even if those babies were Warg pups. 

It was not as though Thori _knew_ that Azog was an important Orc. 


	4. Disagreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They continue to get to know one another.

After the first time – and Thorin had _no idea_ what had possessed him to jump down into the Orcs' courtyard to meet Azog – the pale Orc invited him down every time he visited.

He could not always visit very frequently – a prince, even a young one, had responsibilities. He met with guild heads and attended meetings and reported back to the family in their family dinners. There were many things he still had to learn about the running of the kingdom he would someday rule.

He'd worried a little that Rukh would recognize Thorin and Thori as the same Dwarf, but the diplomat never paid him any mind in the meetings he attended. He was more interested in the guild heads and Balin – which was understandable. All Thorin did in those meetings was sit quietly in the back and listen.

Thori also did not interact much with the other Orcs when he was visiting with Azog. Normally he would climb up on the gate of the Warg enclosure so they were on the same level to talk. Sometimes Lûl even allowed him to pet her, and a few other Wargs were warming up to him too. It was fascinating, these huge fierce creatures he _knew_ to be terrible in battle leaning into his touch as he scratched behind their ears.

Lûl grew round and short-tempered, and Thori sent presents to her now and then – not _too_ often. Seeing the way those huge jaws could crack the thickest ox bones without effort he wished he could get her something bigger – something she could chew on like a pet dog with a bone.

Maybe an a bone from a fabled oliphant, but there were none of _them_ to be had.

Talking with Azog was... different. Frightening, sometimes, when Thori remembered that _he was an Orc_ , and he was so _close_ and _big_ and _dangerous_. If he'd wanted Thori dead, all he'd have had to do was throw him in with the Wargs and there'd never even be a scrap of him left. It had only taken a single word for Lûl to accept him as a friend, and seeing how well the Wargs obeyed Azog Thori doubted it would take more than that for them to see him as food. Most of the time, though, Thori did not worry and just _enjoyed_ talking with Azog.

Azog was curious about how Erebor was run, and that was something a prince had an intimate knowledge of. They talked about noble houses and production and guilds and imports and exports and tariffs – but Thori was always careful not to give him anything that might give the Orcs too much of an advantage in the trade negotiations. They did not need to know that the smiths guild was willing to shut down the great forges rather than risk losing access to their stores of fat, for example. In turn he learned about how things were run in Gundabad, ruled by the council of elders and all things shared. He learned about hunting and angora goats and dye snails – though Azog was careful not to give him any details as to their culturing. He learned about the Lossoth Men of the far north and all the other cultures of Men the Orcs had found to trade with.

Thori enjoyed speaking with Azog, and Azog seemed to enjoy speaking with him.

That is not to say they always saw eye to eye. It was inevitable that they would clash. Their peoples were so different, and so many of the things they knew of each other were lies. Thorin lost his temper when Azog suggested that it might be common for Dwarves to kill their own kin for gold – when everyone knew that kin was more precious than _any_ treasure. Azog snarled with his sharp teeth just inches from Thorin's face when he suggested that Orcs were cannibals.

“Not even when we _starved_ did we eat our own kind.” he snarled in his deep growl of a voice, “We are not like _your_ people, hunting Orclings for your pots.”

Thori could not hide his revulsion at the very idea, “That's disgusting! Who would eat an _Orc_?” he asked in disgust, and that was not the right way to diffuse the situation.

They had lost all track of time shouting at each other until one of the cringing cooks came to interrupt them and tell Azog that it was dinner time.

Thori and Azog had stared at each other, both breathing hard.

Azog poked Thori in the chest with one massive finger.

“We are _not_ cannibals.” He growled, remembering what had started the argument in the first place.

“ _We_ do not eat Orclings.” Thori replied, shoving his hand away.

“Good!” Azog snapped.

“Good!” Thorin snapped back... and that was the end of that argument, and the visit for that day.

 

Sometimes they could laugh together about the lies they'd been told, like the day they determined that Orcs were _not_ born of mud and Dwarves were not born of stone. They were both born of the wombs of bearers.

“What do Orc bearers _look_ like?” Thori asked curiously, once they were done laughing at the most ridiculous bits of the stories the other had been told.

“Like themselves.” Azog answered, tossing the day's meal of hogs and sheep to the Wargs, “The only difference between the kinds is...” he gestured briefly toward his groin, “unless they are bearing or nursing.”

“So some of the delegation could be and I would not know?” Thori asked, glancing toward where several of the guards were tending to their weapons.

Azog laughed briefly, and Thorin looked back at him.

“ _Are_ there? _Who_?” he asked, but Azog's smile had died as he threw the final hog to the back of the enclosure for the Wargs.

“That is... not a polite question to ask.” He said in the tone of voice Thori was starting to come to realize was the _I am trying not to be angry at the Dwarf_ tone... and he realized _what_ he'd asked. It was _far_ too intimate, not a thing to ask of anyone but a lover. He should not have asked it.

“My apologies.” he said, “It is not polite to ask that among Dwarves either.”

“It is forgotten.” Azog rumbled, washing his hand and metal claw now that the Wargs were all fed, having a small smile out of the corner of his mouth for Thori as he nodded to accept that and drop the subject.

 

The angriest Thori ever saw Azog was the time when he thoughtlessly asked why they'd chosen Orcs so _deformed_ for most of the delegation.

It had not been his finest moment as far as word choice went, but he _did_ wonder why most of the Orcs were so hunched and twisted.

Azog breathed in one enormous breath, his massive muscles tensing everywhere as he looked away from Thorin. He let it out slowly, as though to calm himself, but his jaw only grew tighter as he took another deep breath after it.

His pale blue eyes were blazing as he turned them back on Thori, his lips curled with his rage, and Thori could _easily_ see his own death in that anger.

Azog's deep rough voice was horribly quiet as he spoke.

“Is _that_ how you see us?” he asked “Is that how you see the injuries of the warriors of _your_ people?”

“No.” He answered his own question sharply, taking a step back from Thori that somehow did not make him feel any more _safe_.

“Leave.” Azog said quietly, and at first Thori did not understand. They had never argued where Azog sent him away, and he'd only just arrived to visit.

“Leave _now_ , Dwarf!” Azog roared, the Wargs all on their feet and growling in response to their caretaker's anger. Thori was unarmed save for his puny smithing hammers and in the sharpness of Azog's teeth, his size, the bulging of his muscles, the feral rage in his eyes, he could see only _danger_ and not the person he'd come to know – to think of as a friend.

He ran, and behind him he heard a wordless bellowing scream and the crash of some object being destroyed in his place, followed by the harsh sounds of Orc speech he could only imagine was cursing.

It had shaken him, and he almost determined not to return again. He nearly talked himself around to believing that Orcs were nothing but mindless untrustworthy monsters after all.

…but he went out drinking with Frerin and a few friends and saw old warriors limping as they favored old injuries. He thought of his cousin Dwalin who could not stay still and wandered the roads of Middle Earth – the fiercest of warriors with his twin axes – with the heavy scars across his face. He thought of his young cousin Dain, crown prince of the Iron Hills, who had lost part of his leg and used a prosthesis

He saw his own father, missing an eye.

He would never have called any of _them_ deformed. Dwarves celebrated their battle scars. Thorin looked at hunched, limping, scarred Dwarves and saw their bravery marked on their bodies. He looked at them and saw proof of the strength of Dwarves, built strong to endure.

When he saw the same in Orcs, he had not seen the same thing.

He attended a meeting between the Orcish diplomats and the guild heads, and this time when he saw Rukh limping stiffly into the room he tried to look at him the way he would a Dwarf.

...the injuries he must have survived were _terrible_ , and Thorin had to look away.

Thori returned to visit, but though Azog saw him, he turned away without greeting him – the first time he'd done that since he began visiting. It stung, as it was likely meant to.

“Azog.” Thori called to him, saw the Orc's jaw tense so he knew he was heard even though he did not turn or acknowledge him.

“I was _wrong_.” As Thorin it would have cost him more to admit that, but as Thori the smith, son of no one, it was easier. He could say what he meant.

“I looked at your diplomats with fresh eyes.” He continued, “And I saw warriors, marked with the scars of their bravery.”

Azog paused for a long moment before slowly turned to see him.

“I was wrong.” he said again, because Azog's eyes seemed to be asking him to say more and he did not know what else he _could_ say.

Azog nodded, gesturing him down, “Come.” he said. “Lûl has been missing you.”

Thori dropped down into the courtyard and climbed up the gate to join Azog, watching the Wargs. They were both quiet.

Lûl had grown even rounder, and the other Wargs gave her a wide berth, wary of her bad temper.

“How much longer?” Thori asked, “How much bigger will she get?”

“It varies.” Azog said, “And I do not know _when_ she found a male, but I think very soon.”

They fell into an uncomfortable silence again, and Thori _had_ to try to earn back some of their camaraderie.

“My own father is missing an eye, from an old battle wound.” He said quietly, “If someone had implied that _he_ were deformed for it.... It was wrong of me. I am unused to seeing Orcs as warriors. I will not make that mistake again.”

“And I am unused to thinking a Dwarf's pride could bear to apologize to anyone, much less an Orc.” Azog eventually answered.

“We _can_ learn, we're not _Elves_.” Thori snorted. Azog's big booming laugh answered that, and for just a moment his big hand rested on Thori's shoulder to give it a warm squeeze.

 

The next time Thori came to visit, Azog caught his eye immediately and gestured him down with a brief turn of his head and a smile.

The Wargs all seemed to be crowded together on one side of the enclosure, and for a moment Thori didn't understand _why_.

“Whelped last night.” Azog said proudly as Thori's eyes finally went to the other side of the enclosure to see Lûl presiding serenely over two dark-furred pups.

They were the size of dogs, and already tussling with each other with ferocious growls, their sharp teeth flashing.

...it should not have surprised him that Wargs were born fighting.

“She will kill anyone who comes close today.” Azog said, that note of pride still in his voice.

“Even you?” Thori asked, and Azog nodded proudly.

“Lûl has always been a good mother.” He explained. “It will be a few days before I can begin to train them.”

The giant white Warg nosed her way in to break it up as her pups began to fight _too_ hard, tumbling them away from each other before they could hurt each other.

She lifted her head to growl at a Warg who had dared _move_ on the other side of the enclosure, and it dropped immediately back to the floor in terror.

Thori felt a little sorry for the other Wargs, but Lûl was rolling over to let her pups nurse and he couldn't care anymore.

“They are _beautiful_.” He sighed, and Azog smiled as he agreed.

He was going to have to find out what was safe to send the pups as a present – and of course he would be sending extra ox hearts for Lûl.

She deserved them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm basing the Wargs on Hyenas a bit.
> 
> Also, thanks to asparklethatisblue and madamefaust for helping me think of lies the Orcs might believe of the Dwarves.


	5. Listening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wargs and Wars.

“Thori!” Azog called to him from inside the Warg enclosure, gesturing the Dwarf to jump down from his rooftop watching space. Thori smiled as he did, the Dwarf climbing up the gate to sit in his customary spot. A few of the Wargs wandered over to beg scratches from him while Azog continued working with the pups.

They grew so fast – it was important to train them as much as possible while still young. They didn't know their own strength yet, though. Lûl was a good mother who would make sure they did not injure each other, but it was up to Azog to defend himself when the larger one got her teeth into his arm while he was distracted with Thori. It was important to train them to be careful with allies while they were still small enough he could flip them onto their backs and snarl in their faces. Only after a Warg was trained to respect allies could it be trained to follow its instincts to hunt and kill, if it was ever to serve as a mount instead of just a hunter.

The pup stilled instantly beneath his pinning hand, and he let her up, inspecting the neat puncture wounds she'd left on his arm. That was enough training for now, and Azog left the pups to talk with Thori.

It was hard not to like the Dwarf, as infuriating as he could be. He was a wealthy son, that much Azog had gathered, and an eldest son. He had some responsibilities, more responsibilities than the carefree younger siblings he sometimes mentioned, but not as many as he someday expected to have. He knew, at least a little, about almost everything Azog could think to ask about Erebor – and if he did _not_ , he had learned it by the next time he came to visit.

He was a wealthy son in disguise looking for an adventure, a noble of some sort who had never wanted for anything and spared no thought for money, but Azog could not help but like him. His affection for the Wargs, especially Lûl and the pups, was genuine, and that spoke well of him. He enjoyed giving presents to them. He was curious and he _listened_ when Azog explained things to him. He clearly _wanted_ to understand Orcs, which was not something Azog had ever expected to see in a Dwarf.

He was infuriating when he thoughtlessly said things that showed he did not think of Orcs as living, _thinking_ , people. Azog could expect that from Dwarves, of course, but that Thori _tried_ most of the time made the times he did not worse.

He was infuriating... and yet he never failed to apologize when he saw he had been in the wrong, and he never made the same mistake twice.

The Wargs moved out of the way and let Azog lean on the inside of the gate opposite Thori, who made a sympathetic face at the dark blood dripping from the small wounds on his arm.

“It is nothing.” Azog assured him. Already the blood was clotting – there would hardly be a mark left in a few days. “But you see why _you_ cannot touch them. They would _eat_ you.”

“Dwarves do not injure so easily.” Thori protested stubbornly, but he had not really needed to be reminded. He had asked only once and accepted it when Azog told him no, though the longing was clear on his face sometimes when he looked at the pups.

Thori took a rectangle of sturdy cloth out of a pocket and gestured for Azog's injured arm. He held it out to the Dwarf, curiously, and held still as Thori wiped it clean of blood.

He was not overly gentle, which Azog could appreciate. Thori made no show of it. Azog's iron hand was good, it was functional, but there were some things he could not do so easily.

“They have closed already...” Thori said, surprise clear, as he poked at the smaller punctures. Only the largest on the inside of his arm was still bleeding and Thori pressed his thumb firmly over it, applying pressure to make it stop. His hand was small around Azog's forearm, but his grip was surprisingly strong.

“We heal quickly.” Azog told him. Perhaps Dwarves were like Men, who seemed to bleed much more than Orcs from similar wounds – but then neither Dwarves nor Men had been bred specifically for war the way Orcs had.

“So I see.” Thori said, looking back toward the Warg pups who were nursing again. Eating was all they wanted to do at this age, when they were not sleeping or fighting. The longing was back on the Dwarf's face as he watched them.

“I do not think you realize the bidding wars you could start over the pups. Dwarves would _fight_ over the chance to have one...” he mused.

“No!” Azog growled, and Thori's sharp blue eyes had snapped up to his face instantly. _This_ was why they had tried to keep Lûl, the finest Warg matriarch, from breeding when they were going to be in Erebor. This was why the Orcish delegation had decided _together_ that they would not be mentioning that there were Warg pups. Was _this_ what it had all been about? Thori ingratiating himself with Azog, giving presents to Lûl and the pups to try and get one for himself? Bored wealthy son looking for an unusual pet?

Who could expect a _Dwarf_ to understand the bond between Orc and Warg? Who could expect a _Dwarf_ to understand that trust? The Wargs were a _part_ of the Orcs. When they were slaves they at least had the Wargs. When they had nothing, when they _starved_ and they had _nothing_ they still had each other and the loyalty of the Wargs.

The very thought of a Warg paired with anyone other than an Orc was wrong. Just _wrong_ , and Thori's bright blue eyes were trying to read him, trying to _understand_ , his thumb still pressed tight over a wound that had likely stopped bleeding by now.

“There are _some_ things that are not for sale, Dwarf. There are some things too precious to have a price.” Azog growled, “...or at least among Orcs, there are.”

Thori bridled at that, there was _nothing_ that riled him more easily than the suggestion that Dwarves placed a higher value on treasure than anything else... but he bit his tongue and breathed to calm himself.

“You mean to imply, once again, that Dwarves would sell our own mothers if we could get a good price.” Thori said evenly, “If the pups are not for sale, they are _not._ I can _understand_ that.”

There had been a time not so long ago when Thori would not have held his temper so well under Azog's insult, and there had been a time when Azog would not have been so quick to take him at his word.

He breathed deep to let his own anger go.

“They are a part of our people.” he explained. “Orc and Warg. We go _together_.”

“...closer to kin...” Thori mused, understanding sparking in his eyes, and Azog nodded once before they both broke eye contact together. Thori turned back to Azog's arm, wiping off the last few drops of spilt blood as he checked to see that he was no longer bleeding.

Azog took the rectangle of fabric from him to the spigot to rinse his blood out of it before the stain could set. That was one thing he liked of Erebor, the water piped through the walls to all parts of the mountain. It was an idea they would do well to take back with them, if the diplomats were successful in negotiating for that knowledge.

Thori accepted the cloth back with a nod, wringing it out and shoving it back into the pocket it came from. He stayed easily balanced on the top of the gate as Azog let himself out of it.

“Ah, last time you were asking about the ovens.” Thori remembered, “I have learned more!”

“Tell me of the ovens.” Azog requested, leaning against the gate beside the Dwarf, and learning how the heat of the great forges of the Dwarves was piped up to massive stone ovens that could roast entire oxen. He learned _how much_ bread was baked every day for the Dwarves of Erebor. It was an astonishing amount, but then Dwarves seemed to eat much more bread than Orcs did. They were similar to Men again in that – though from what he'd heard Men and Dwarves ate much more meat than Elves tended to. Thori had been able to tell him about Elvish delegations Erebor had hosted in the past, and how they wanted to eat almost nothing but green growing things - not easy to come by under a mountain.

Azog was not sure Gundabad would ever need ovens like those of Erebor, with how little bread they ate, but it was interesting to learn about.

Talk of bread led to talk of grain imports, which Thori knew more about. He seemed to have an intimate knowledge of Erebor's imports, exports, and trade partners – which explained his original interest in the Orcish delegation.

When that conversation naturally wound its way to a close they sat in companionable silence, watching the Wargs. The pups had woken from their nap and were fighting again. Thori tried to wager on the smaller male, claiming he would win through sheer wiliness, but Lûl broke the fight up before he could lose.

Thori sighed at that, but let it go with a shrug. He looked toward Azog as if he were going to say something, seeming to change his mind as he looked away.

It was a long moment before he turned away from the Wargs to look at Azog again.

“I have been wondering if I can ask about your scars.” he said, watching Azog carefully for his reaction.

Azog leaned back from him, flexing the muscles that bore those scars. It was only surprising that it had taken Thori so long to ask – with how curious the Dwarf was.

“You can ask.” He gave permission, and Thori nodded as he clearly searched for words that would convey his meaning without giving offense.

“They are so even.” the dwarf said, indicating the matching scars across Azog's chest, his shoulders, “I wonder how you came by them. I wonder if they are war wounds... or something else.” He finished cautiously, as well he might.

“They are both.” Azog said. He pressed two fingers to the jagged scar across his right pectoral, “This is a war wound.” the matching one on his left, smoother and slightly less deep, “This is decoration.” He pointed out others, the major ones – the ones he even _remembered_ which side had been cut first. Thori's hand reached out to touch his upper arm, tracing the shape of scars he had taken extra care to make decorative.

“I matched every wound I took in battle.” he explained, and Thori's eyes were wide. It had been a little of vanity, maintaining his symmetry, and more of bravado. To hearten those of his own side and strike fear into the enemy – _his enslaved siblings_ – to show there was _nothing_ they could do to him he could not handle doubled. He took a wound, killed the one who'd harmed him, then matched it and continued fighting with twice the injury.

He lifted his iron hand, emerging from the stump of his severed arm, “...until I took a wound I could not...”

It had been a terrible day, a terrible lost battle – a lost battle but a won war. Even without his arm he _still_ led his people to victory.

Thori's expression was complex, confusion maybe? It was not always easy to tell beneath all his dark hair.

“It is not so different from how your warriors ink themselves for beauty.” Azog defended. Dwarves took surface wounds for decoration too, it was just that _his_ had no dyes in them. That was not the custom of Orcs – though a few of the younger Orcs of the delegation had expressed an interest in the art.

“...no, it is not.” Thori agreed, drawing his hand back. “This was in the wars? Can you tell me why? They ranged the length and breadth of Middle Earth, but we know almost _nothing_ about the Orc wars – _why_ they were fought...”

Of course he would not know. Why should any of the free peoples of Middle Earth have cared about what Orcs did? Wealthy son who'd never wanted for anything, he might not even be _able_ to understand, but he was _asking_... and Thori was always good at listening.

“Because we were slaves.” Azog answered, and his voice was a bitter growl but he could not care to moderate his tone. The Dwarf wanted to know? Let him _hear_ it.

“We were _slaves_ and Mordor spent our lives far too cheaply.” He held up his iron hand, “If _this_ was the cost of freedom for my people, it was _worth it_. A thousand times over it was worth it. We went to war against our own enslaved brothers and sisters, and we died for it, and we died _free_. We took for ourselves the freedom to _choose_ what battles to spend our lives on.”

Thorin sat, quiet and wide-eyed, as Azog told him the stories of the war.

Dinner was late that night as the Orcs of the delegation gathered around to listen too, to add a detail here or there to the tales they had never told in the common tongue before, and no one had the heart to stop it until they brought the tale to a close in the newfound freedom of their home in Gundabad.


	6. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy and Bolg

Thorin had not seen any change in himself, but others apparently did.

It started with Dis agonizing over what to wear to impress a suitor. She had clothes strewn across half the royal siblings common room, going from one to the other while Frerin was unhelpful.

“The gold and sapphires jewelry set.” Frerin suggested.

“Yes? But with _what_?” she demanded.

“Who says you have to wea...” Frerin started with a wicked grin, but Thorin put his hand over his golden brother's mouth before he said things that would render Dis morally obligated to kill him.

“What?” he said, wiggling free, “She wants to be impressive! I was _very impressed_ the time...” And Thorin grappled him into a better hold to silence him. They did _not_ need to know what one of Frerin's lovers had done in nothing but jewelry.

“The red dress, the white fur stole, and the diamond hair net and belt.” Thorin suggested over Frerin's muffled protests, and Dis grabbed them up with a quick grateful look and ran away to change. He didn't let Frerin go until Dis was out of earshot, but his younger brother did not immediately defend his improper suggestions. The look he gave Thorin was strange.

“The white stole was made with weasel fur... from the Orcs...” He said, as though Thorin might have forgotten that.

“It suits her.” Thorin shrugged.

Why should it be strange that he would suggest the clothes that suited his sister best?

 

“No my prince, you _must_ hold strong!”

Thorin was bored at the official court function, but not so much that he wanted to talk with Lord Bavorr. The other Dwarf was looking at his coat with dismay.

“Your silent protest _has_ been noticed – if you hold strong we can continue to build resistance to the idea of trade with the Orcs.” Lord Bavorr continued, and Thorin noticed that the decorative top stitching and embroidery on this coat was done in tread dyed Tyrion purple.

It explained why he'd had such a hard time finding it. He'd had to ask the house steward, who had brought it to him. It must have been one of the ones he ordered taken away. Of _course_ the house steward would have kept it – in case he changed his mind or it could be modified for someone else in future.

Thorin looked back up at Lord Bavorr, still complaining about the Orcish delegation. It was _tiresome_.

“Find someone else to front your imagined protest.” Thorin told him, adding “...your buttons were carved of Orc-supplied bone.” in a quiet aside. He walked away leaving the old windbag gasping down at himself as though his wardrobe had personally betrayed him.

 

Thorin sat back with a good ale, Frerin at his side – good friends at their table, and good spirits filling the tavern they drank at.

Someone began to talk of the Orcish delegation, mentioning with disdain Rukh's hunched posture and limp.

“Yes.” Thorin said, taking a long drink from his ale, “ _Imagine_ the wounds he must have survived in the Orc wars.”

There were looks of confusion, surprise, and then shocked understanding. Thorin could not share the stories Azog and the rest of the Orcs had told of the wars... but he'd been _raised_ on tales of battle and valor, and theirs were no less brave than the finest ballads.

Frerin looked at him for a long time, as though trying to figure him out – but then he smiled and told a joke that made everyone laugh and the topic was forgotten.

 

Thorin drew Balin aside in a break in stalled negotiations with the Orcish delegation, everyone frustrated that they were no longer making any progress.

“Offer them stonemasonry.” He suggested quietly.

“Thorin?” Balin's distrustful surprise was clear.

“No secrets, nothing more than we already teach Men.” He clarified, “It costs us almost nothing, and they would be fools not to value the chance.”

“mmm...” Balin pondered, “They have not expressed any _interest_ in the skill...”

“They may not have thought of it.” Thorin suggested.

“It is a good suggestion.” Balin conceded after a little more thought, “Will _you_ be presenting it?”

Thorin looked toward the Orcs, the other diplomats cringing as they spoke with Rukh – what he'd once seen as cowardice he was coming to understand was just their way of being _polite_ to a superior. He would rather not risk being recognized, and losing his chances to learn more of them.

He _liked_ being Thori among them.

“These are _your_ negotiations.” he told Balin, “You'll know better than I the right moment to make the offer.”

Balin's shoulders straightened, a small pleased smile on his lips for a moment. He reached up to give Thorin's shoulder a firm squeeze.

“You're growing up, laddie.” he said, and Thorin returned to his place in the back of the room as the break ended.

It was not _so_ strange, he'd offered suggestions in countless negotiations before.

There was no cause for Balin to be so surprised.

 

Thori sat in his usual spot on the top of the gate, scratching behind Lûl's ears, while Azog finished up working with the pups for the day. They grew surprisingly fast, already twice the size they'd been, and a thicker, shaggier coat of fur growing in.

“Azog...” Thori asked, “Lûl's name... does it _mean_ anything? Can you tell me?”

The giant Orc laughed his big booming laugh, giving the Warg pups the command that they were done. They obediently lay down while Azog began making his way to the gate.

“ _Ninklûl_.” he said, Lûl glancing back at him at her full name. “I do not know the name in the common tongue. It means the tiny – the common white flowers with the yellow center?”

It took a moment to register, “A daisy?” Thori asked. “Her name is _Daisy_?” He could not help but laugh, and Azog was smiling too as he scratched the top of her head with his claw.

“The fiercest Warg warrior, and her name is Daisy.” Thori laughed.

“My son renamed her.” Azog's deep rough voice was as soft as it ever could go, and there was a gentleness in his eyes that Thori had only seen directed at the Warg pups before.

“You have a son... you're _married_?” Thori asked. Azog had _never_ given any hint before – not that _Thori_ could complain about secrets as he hid Thorin.

“Marriage has never been our custom.” Azog said, leaning against Lûl's solid shoulder, his fingers digging idly into her fur. “...but perhaps it will _become_ so, now that we are free.” he mused.

“Is all coupling done in marriage among Dwarves, the way they say it is of Elves?” He asked.

“No.” Thori assured him, “Taking lovers is common – though most children are born to wedded couples.” It had been made clear to him young that he could take what lovers he liked who wanted him back, so long as he kept it quiet and fathered no children. He had always taken extraordinary care when he lay with Dwarves who could bear.

...though he could not imagine that Frerin did, and he favored Dwarrowdams much more than Thorin ever had. It had been a continual surprise in the last decade that the golden princeling had _not_ presented a child... or _more_ than one...

How would families _work_ , if marriage was not the custom?

Azog made a thoughtful sound, raking his metal claw through the wiry fur at the top of Lûl's neck, “I wonder how much of who we _are_ as Orcs is our nature – and how much is what we were _made_ to be.” He mused.

“For answer I can only look at our children – at _my son_ , Bolg, born free.” pride warmed the roughness of his voice, pale eyes shining, “He fights tooth and claw, and names Wargs for his favorite flowers, and dresses himself in weasel skulls because they are pretty.”

“Bolg.” Thori repeated the name. He was not sure what Orclings even _looked_ like, and it was difficult for him to picture an Orc doing anything for sheer love of beauty.

And yet... why should they not?

Azog was a _father_ , what a strange thought. _Any_ of the Orcs of the delegation could be parents, and Thori had had no idea.

“I would like to meet him someday.” Thori said.

Azog moved Lûl out of the way and came through the gate, easily blocking the smaller Warg pup who had been sneaking up on his belly in an attempt to escape.

“Maybe I will bring him if Erebor hosts another delegation when he is old enough.” Azog agreed readily, “For now he stays in Gundabad with his mother.”

“He _wanted_ to come.” the pale Orc continued, leaning companionably against the gate beside Thori, “I thought to buy him something pretty from Erebor's famed markets... but we would not be welcome to wander the streets and shops.”

He said it offhand, and Thori wanted to protest that _of course_ the Orcish delegation would be welcome to shop in Erebor's markets even while he knew that was not true. He could picture the reactions if _Azog_ were to go walking down the streets of Erebor. Some of the others might have managed it with only a little trouble, but Azog was too big, too noticeable, too _imposing._

“Perhaps I will have time to find him something in Dale before we leave.” Azog finished.

“I hope you do.” Thori said. It was not right. There must be _some_ way Azog could buy something for his son in Erebor. Delegations of Elves and Men and common _traders_ of any race were free to wander the markets, why shouldn't the delegation of free Orcs be, too?

“I always bring him _something_ if I can.” Azog agreed, and he seemed distant as he looked out into the courtyard.

“You _miss_ him.” Thori realized.

So many things he had never thought of just a few short months ago – Orcs as brave warriors, Orcs with _families_ – but of course they were and of course they did. They were people, different, but not _so_ different.

“I do.” Azog said, and then he smiled slightly, tugging a small pouch off his belt and carefully fishing something small out of it.

He hesitated before he opened his huge hand to show Thori.

“Bolg sent me with this, to remember him.” He said.

Thori reached for it, waiting for Azog's nod of permission before he picked up the little weasel skull. It was painted in bright swirls of red and yellow ochre, very fierce, and had a hole drilled through it so Thori imagined it could be strung on a chain as a necklace.

“He painted this?” He asked, and Azog nodded.

“It is his favorite skull.” he said.

“He is an artist.” Thori judged, handing the skull carefully back to Azog. It was not like the art of Dwarves or that of Men or Elves, but why should it be? Azog's smile said he'd given the right answer – he'd learned young that it was never the wrong answer to praise a child's craft to their parent.

“Can you tell me more of Bolg?” Thori asked, and leaned back comfortably, petting a few Wargs who wandered up for it, and listened as Azog spoke like _any_ proud parent would.


	7. Finalized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a small celebration

The day after the trade negotiations were finalized, after both Erebor and the free Orcs were satisfied with the content and wording of their trade agreement, Thori brought a jug of wine to celebrate with the Orcs, purchased on his way in from the forges.

In a few days there would be an official ceremony for the signing of the agreement, and then the Orcs would be returning to Gundabad.

Thori could admit that he would miss them and the Wargs. They had been interesting, and he enjoyed Azog's company, but their presence in Erebor was only ever going to be temporary.

Soon their quarters would be empty, waiting for the next delegation of diplomats to arrive – Men probably, or maybe Elves.

Thori jumped down into the courtyard at Azog's invitation and climbed up on the gate to the Warg enclosure. Azog was working with the male pup – Thori was _still_ surprised at how fast they were growing. They were nearly shoulder-high to the smaller adult Wargs, though still much slimmer, all awkward bones and too-big feet, but he could tell they would grow into beautiful Wargs.

The female pup grew bored of watching Azog and her brother, and ambled over to the gate curiously.

“Azog?” Thori asked as she sniffed at him. If she were _any_ other Warg coming up to him like this he would have been petting her already, but he'd been told more than once that the pups were not safe, that he was not allowed.

The giant Orc glanced over briefly and nodded, “She knows you are an ally.” he said, turning back to the male pup. Thori let her sniff his hand before he _finally_ petted her.

Her fur was downy-soft, a light dove gray color, darker around her eyes as though she wore heavy kohl like the Men of Harad. Like Lûl, she loved being scratched behind the ears.

She put her forepaws on the gate to lift herself closer to him, panting on him with her huge sharp teeth _very_ close but he couldn't care. He'd wanted to pet her since the day she was born.

Her eyes were closed in contented happiness as he scratched, and Thori might have been content to stay there forever but Azog finished up with her brother and two words in the sharp words of Orc speech and she immediately left Thori to return to him.

“Shameless.” Azog chastised her fondly, running her through a few commands before he decided the pups had had enough for the day. He eyed the jug at Thori's side curiously as he let himself out the gate.

“Wine, to celebrate the completed trade agreement!” Thori told him, with a smile.

“That was not announced.” Azog pointed out.

“Word travels.” Thori told him with a shrug – not that it _had_ to, in his case. Thorin had been in the room when the agreement was finalized. “It's a good wine, a strong red from west of the Misty Mountains, very smooth...” he enticed.

Azog made a noncommittal rumble, walking through the courtyard. Thori jumped down from the gate to follow, wondering if he'd made some sort of mistake – though Azog was never silent if he offered insult.

Azog sat on a bench and Thori joined him, jug of wine resting between his knees. They both looked toward the balcony, but the lure of the Orcs had faded over time and there were almost never Dwarves there watching anymore and it was empty.

“No.” Azog said, gesturing toward the jug, “There is a saying – a fool drinks in the house of...” he paused, “...the enemy?” he finished quieter, as though it did not sound right to him.

Thori had _hoped_ that Azog did not see him as an enemy, as he no longer saw Azog as one. Still, considering that they were in a stronghold of Dwarves it made sense that the Orc would be less at ease, so outnumbered.

It _did_ explain how the Orcs had all been on such good behavior during the delegation's stay in Erebor, if they had not been drinking. Usually during a delegation visit, even those of Elves, at least one person would make a fool of themselves and cause an incident. It had made things easier for already tense negotiations that the Orcs had not.

“Were I in Gundabad, I would not likely be comfortable enough to drink.” Thori answered understandingly.

There was a long moment of silence before Azog snarled under his breath and grabbed the jug of wine out of Thori's hands. He expertly unstoppered it one handed and poured a stream of wine from the spout directly into his mouth – so not a drop spilled and the spout did not touch his lips. He swallowed with his pale blue eyes glaring at Thori as though in challenge.

He tipped the jug toward Thori, and he knew better than to even hesitate to take it back and tip a stream into his own mouth. Azog had trusted him enough to take the first drink, trusting it was safe and unpoisoned though their peoples were old enemies. Thori could only show him that his trust was not misplaced. Thorin the prince would never have had a cause to know how to drink wine directly from the jug, but Thori the smith had spent enough time in the right sort of company to know the trick of it. He took a healthy mouthful and handed it back.

Azog quickly stoppered the jug and tossed it across the courtyard with a shout. The surprised guard Orc caught it, and in a moment the rest of the delegation had gathered around, sharing the wine out between them all.

Divided between so many, it would not be enough to make any one of them drunk – a smart move on Azog's part. The jug was tossed back to Thori empty in short order, and he sat it under the bench for safekeeping.

“To the trade agreement.” Azog toasted belatedly, “It _was_ good wine.” and Thori inclined his head slightly in agreement.

“Do you still wish to buy something in Erebor for Bolg?” he asked, meeting the Orc's pale eyes, seeing surprise there.

“It is not possible.” Azog answered.

“It will not be the great markets...” Thori agreed, “But I spoke with a few Dwarves. There are a few shops, nearby, if any of the Orcs of the delegation wish to visit them in my company this evening?”

The diplomats and guards and even the more timid cooks immediately began talking excitedly in their harsh-syllabled language, but Azog just leaned back and smiled.

 

Thori had begged, shamelessly, to make it possible.

“ _Please_ , Dori.” he asked the gorgeous sturdy shopkeeper, “Their coin is as good as any other. If _you_ allow it, the other shops will too.”

Dori made an uncomfortable little hum, his lips pursed, as he rearranged little nicknacks on his counter.

“You ask me to let _Orcs_ into my shop.” he said, a little disbelievingly.

“They are guests of Erebor. Would you turn away diplomats from any _other_ race?” Thori asked him, and Dori turned away slightly to tuck away an imaginary stray hair into his immaculate braids.

“He wishes to bring home something pretty for his son.” Thori continued, quietly, and in the little surprised motion of Dori's shoulders he saw his victory, “You should _hear_ him speak of his son, Dori... he is like any other doting parent.”

“Please.” He begged again, and Dori's gray eyes finally met his, unbending iron in the spine of the rumored strongest Dwarf in Erebor.

“ _Who_ is asking me this?” He asked, and Thori was taken aback for a moment. He hadn't know that Dori recognized him – but of course he would have been too polite to mention it unless pushed to it, and even then he was delicate about it.

“Thori the smith, son of no one.” Thori answered, gesturing to himself – nothing to mark him as royal or noble or anything. Just a smith. “I would _never_ order this...” he added quietly. “It is your choice.”

Dori hummed again, looking away and tapping at his countertop nervously.

“...very well, _Thori_.” He finally answered with a sigh, “But I will have compensation for any damages.”

“Of course.” Thori answered, and went to go cajole a few more shops on the street to agree to it.

 

Dori was truly a professional, he seemed perfectly at ease as he looked up and up and _up_ at Azog and welcomed him into his shop.

He smiled and explained his goods and teased out exactly what sort of things Azog was looking for – the pale Orc left with two strings of brightly colored glass beads, clearly pleased.

Only when he was gone did Dori slump against the counter, rubbing his face with trembling hands as he forced himself to breathe.

“Thank you, Dori.” Thorin said, placing a comforting hand on the shorter Dwarf's shoulder. Dori waved him off.

“Go on, see to the rest of them.” He urged, and Thorin nodded as he left to see what the rest of the delegation were up to.

Rukh had purchased ink and a quill, another diplomat a knife, several of the guards were buying brightly colored fabrics at another shop, another had purchased a bar of fragrant soap. The cooks were discussing spices at another.

They finished up their shopping quickly – Rukh was in charge of their money and he kept everyone in line. Thori accompanied them back to where they were housed, catching the eyes of his most trusted royal guards as they passed them – posted discreetly along the route.

He could never have gotten the shopkeepers to agree if he had not chosen a time that was very low business, and had not guaranteed a guard presence.

“Are there always so many guards?” Azog asked, quietly.

“No.” Thori answered, it would do him no good to lie. The Orc shook his head with a brief rumble in his chest that might have been a chuckle.

Thori left them at their front gate, nodding to those who thanked him. Azog merely rested a huge hand on his shoulder for a moment before he passed through.

Thori returned back to collect his guards, glad that he had enough he could trust to remain silent about this. It was a far more visible thing than he liked to do as Thori, but it was the only way he could give the Orcish delegation at least a portion of the welcome they should have had as guests of Erebor.

It was the least he could do for the Orcs he had come to consider his friends, before they returned home to Gundabad now that the trade agreement was finalized.


	8. Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a meal and an offer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should be mouseover translations for your reading pleasure.

The delegation of free Orcs made their preparations to leave, with Azog overseeing. This battle to secure a trade agreement with the Dwarves of Erebor had gone better than they could have hoped. There was only the official signing left. 

Perhaps, with the link to Erebor secured it would not be so long before they could trade with other Dwarven kingdoms – perhaps it would even open a door to trade with the Elves Erebor was allied with, eventually. 

But that was looking too far forward – for now all they could depend on was that a trading partner was a step closer to an ally than an enemy. 

The free Orcs made their preparations to leave, in just a few days once the official signing had happened. Azog went over the harnesses of the pack Wargs, greasing the leather to be sure it was supple and weatherproofed, and Thori worked quietly beside him. 

There was no reason the Dwarf _had_ to help, but he did it anyway.

Thori was a wealthy noble son, and clearly an influential one – there was no doubt of that after he'd brought out guards to make sure the Orcs of the delegation could make purchases in Erebor – but he also knew how to care for leather and did not find it even slightly beneath him to do so. It was not really surprising. He always came to visit smelling of sweat and the forges, it was clear he was also a smith along with being a noble. 

Maybe that was just the way of Dwarves, different from the ways of Men who's nobles seemed mainly useless for anything but talk, and some of them for war. 

Azog had wondered if Thori might want something in exchange for the work and planning it must have taken, but he had never mentioned it. He had not asked anything in return, just as he'd never asked for anything for the gifts he sent Lûl and the pups. 

It seemed he just enjoyed giving presents. 

They finished conditioning the last of the harnesses and sat together talking a little of small things before one of the cooks came over to let Azog know that dinner was done. Thori stood to excuse himself for the evening – and maybe it was the same curiosity that had prompted Azog to reach out to him in the first place had him reaching out to stop him. 

"Join us, Thori.” He invited. The Dwarf had shown that he would hear their stories, and pet their Wargs, and work beside them, and argue with them, and even share wine with them – but would he sit down to a meal with Orcs? Would he eat food prepared by them?

Thori's sharp blue eyes widened with surprise for just a moment before he smiled. 

“I would be honored to.” He answered, and followed along by Azog's side as he walked to join the others. It took some last moment shuffling as everyone shifted over to make space for Thori to sit at Azog's side, but the Dwarf settled comfortably in their circle. He accepted a plate of roast lamb and carrots with a nod when it was passed to him, and waited for everyone to be served before he ate. 

A few of the younger Orcs began talking, as they always did during their group meals. 

“In the common tongue.” Azog reminded them, and there was only a small pause as they adjusted to the change before conversation flowed around as it always did, with plans and what small news they had for each other shared. 

Thori ate heartily, and complimented the seasoning of the meat to the cooks, but mainly he listened. He sipped his cup of _bulmos akrum_ cautiously at first, and then more heavily with a smile. 

“You like it?” Azog asked him, and he nodded. 

“It is _similar_ to a Dwarven ginger beer.” he answered. "A homey drink."

When the meal was over, Thori stayed – lounged out relaxed and comfortable as he and Azog continued speaking. The Dwarf made no move to leave, and Azog did not suggest that he should. 

They were both equally aware that their brief acquaintance was coming to an end. Azog was more than ready to return home to Gundabad, to see Bolg again and be among his own kind, but he would miss Thori. As aggravating as he could sometimes be, he was good for talking with. 

It seemed neither of them were willing to stop. They talked until the sun had set outside the mountain, so the skylights were dark and the lamps were the only light – and longer. 

It was late when their conversation wound its way around to old lovers. 

Thori spoke of being taller than most Dwarves, though he was not as much bigger as Azog was to most Orcs. Thori admitted to having shared a tumble with Men more than once. Azog had done the same, with Men and a few of their more adventurous Women. Thori claimed he'd not taken the offers of any Women, and few of any Dwarrowdams, as they did not much appeal to him. 

Azog admitted that he was _much_ larger than most lovers he had ever taken, and had to take care not to injure them – and it was the increase in the red flush to Thori's face beneath his dark concealing hair that made him realize the scent playing at the edges of his perception was Dwarven arousal. The thickness of Thori's leather smithing apron and the way he sat would have hid his body's reaction, but the scent was unmistakeable now that Azog was aware of it. It was not _so_ different from that of Men or even Orcs. 

It was... unexpected.

Unexpected, but maybe not unwelcome.

“I have never had a lover as small as a Dwarf.” Azog admitted casually. “It might not work.” 

“Dwarves are sturdy.” Thori contended, “I have _heard_ there are Dwarves who can take an entire fist and forearm.” He held up his fist in demonstration, his thick forearm bare with his sleeve rolled to his elbow. 

“I am smaller than _that_.” Azog admitted. 

“Just as well.” Thori said, dropping his fist with a look that was nearly relief, but also curiosity and the edges of a low-burning heat as his eyes traveled back to Azog. 

The words they were not saying floated around them – one of them would have to say them, or they would be lost. Azog leaned back comfortably, reaching over to rest his hand on the Dwarf's solid back. Thori's skin was hot beneath his shirt, and the scent of his arousal peaked. It had never happened _before_ when they touched one another – but they had never been speaking of sex and lovers before either. 

“I had never considered taking a Dwarf to my bed.” He said contemplatively. 

“I never thought I would have a friend who was an Orc I would consider it with.” Thori answered. Both of them were still not _quite_ saying it, not making an offer, though they obviously both knew what they were discussing. 

Would he want to lie with a Dwarf? 

Just _any_ Dwarf? No. 

Thori though... who listened and tried to understand, who could meet his eyes like an equal and did not fear him, who was always straightforward, who could argue fiercely with him but also apologize when he found himself in the wrong...

Azog could envision that it would be enjoyable to lie with him. 

He rubbed his thumb along the back of Thori's neck, beneath his hair, and the Dwarf shivered slightly at the touch. He was small, true, but he was strong and sturdy. 

“Neither of us might have the chance again, after the delegation leaves Erebor.” Thori pointed out.

“If we did.” Azog said, “I am... I do not know how Dwarves would say it. _Narpar_. I would want to enter.” 

Thori was breathing fast, eyes wide as he looked up at Azog, “We say hammer and anvil...” He said, voice rough and the scent of his desire so strong Azog wanted to lick it from his skin. “I would play anvil to your hammer.” 

Trust Dwarves to use smithing terms for their bed roles, and Azog laughed softly in his chest as he gave a squeeze to Thori's muscular shoulder. 

“...but not tonight.” Thori looked away, gauging the time by the lamps. He swallowed hard as he took a deep breath, bringing himself back under his control, “It is _late_ , and I would be prepared...” 

He looked back up at Azog with his sharp blue eyes, “Tomorrow evening?” he asked... and that _would_ give Azog time to prepare too.

“Tomorrow.” he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to mariejacquelyn for suggesting Ginger Beer for a drink.


	9. the ways of Orcs and Dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut. so much smut.

Thorin cleaned himself carefully, within and without. He brushed his hair and made sure his simple undecorated smith braids were nevertheless smooth and perfect.

He dressed in a freshly cleaned set of the simple clothes he would wear in the forges, but left off his apron.

The thought had been a warm weight in his belly all day, a thrill of anticipation. There were a few moments of worry – he'd spoken bravely but _would_ he be able to take Azog? He was given a moment's pause when it hit him unexpectedly that it was an _Orc_ he was anticipating lying with. Not so long ago the very thought would have made him ill – when he thought of Orcs as stupid filthy creatures. Now he knew them to be brave people, not so different from any other people. Now he knew Azog, could call him _friend_ , and had heard enough speaking with him to know he was an experienced and _careful_ lover. The thought of Azog's size and weight on top of him, his strength... Thorin's muscles clenched with want, and he left with his anticipation burning hot.

Frerin caught sight of him of course, leaving with a satchel over his shoulder.

“Two nights in a row?” He smirked, “Your knew lover must be _good._ You'll have to tell me _all_ about them later!”

“Not _all_ things are for sharing, brother-mine.” Thorin told him with a smile. “You would do well to remember that!”

“...generously offer to share a great lover _one time_...” Frerin griped.

“Do not wait up for me.” Thorin told him with a conspiritorial wink. 

"Do nothing I would not!" Frerin called after him, sending him on his way.

"I make no promises!" Thorin called back, leaving the palace with a laugh.

 

Azog was waiting for him. He smiled with his big sharp teeth and put his hand on Thori's back to guide him into his sleeping quarters. Thorin the prince, with his pride, could have resented being claimed in such a way, but Thori the smith could enjoy the feeling of being desired and protected.

Azog ducked and squeezed his way through the doorway, and Thori followed. It was a simple room, the beds Thori _knew_ were provided were missing, in their place two mattresses on the floor, spread with blankets.

...and of _course_ even Man-sized beds would be too small for Azog.

“Erebor could have provided a bed the right size...” Thori started, but Azog waved it off.

“This worked for me. I have slept on far worse.” He dismissed, and his pale blue eyes were on nothing but Thori. He touched curiously, stroking Thori's shoulder, running his thumb softly across his throat where it was bare, and Thori could not help but shudder with anticipation. He was _so large_ , even _one_ of his fingers was the size of a small cock.

Azog cleaned closer, breathing in deeply through his nose as though _smelling_ him.

“You smell different.” He rumbled, confirming that he _had_ been.

“Just soap.” Thori told him, “I did not visit the forges first today.”

Azog smelled him again, “...sandalwood...” He said, contemplatively... and Thori could have cursed himself. Of all the times to give himself away, and of all the ways to do it... what common smith would have access to _sandalwood_? He had simply used his favorite soap without a thought...

“I...” He started, but had nothing to add. Perhaps Azog wouldn't _know_ how expensive sandalwood was? No, no, there was no way he would not know its rarity, he had too good a grasp on the intricacies of trade.

Azog laughed that deep chuckle that didn't seem to leave his chest, still running his hand over Thori's body.

“You think I did not already know you were a noble son?” he asked – and Thori could still curse himself for being so incautious, but it was an intense relief. Azog knew already, and did not mind.

“I prefer the scent of your sweat.” Azog said, quiet and deep, “...but I do not think that will be a problem, soon. Are you ready?”

Thori pressed his hands over the huge hand that rested on his chest, holding it close while he looked up into the intensity of Azog's inescapable pale blue eyes. His hairlessness would never be _handsome,_ and his scarred face was so different from a Dwarf's, but there was a passionate ferocity in him that was very nearly beauty.

“I trust you.” He answered with a nod.

 

Azog held Thori's trust in his hand, and stroked the side of Thori's face – what he could reach of his skin through his hair, the scent of the Dwarf's desire clear beneath his sandalwood. It would burn off soon enough, leaving only _him_.

There would be _time_. There were a few lamps lit for soft light and a warm fire in the brazier so there was no chill in the air. Azog had prepared himself as carefully as Thori clearly had, washing himself and paring his nails short and smooth. All they would need was already laid out ready.

“I have these, to open you for me.” he said, leading Thori to see what he would be using – the set of four carved stone shafts of increasing size – wrapped in soft leather and cloth and kept warm laying on heated stones beside the bed.

Thori's eyes grew wider and wider as he unwrapped them one by one, from smallest to the largest – Azog's size.

“Obsidian.” he said, lifting the second smallest one by the wide handle, hand stroking it from root to tip as he inspected it – Azog already knew they were smooth and free of chips or cracks, but he could not blame the Dwarf for wanting to be sure for himself, as it was his body they were to enter.

...ah, the thought of Thori trembling beneath him as his body yielded to the stone shafts, and then to Azog himself...

“The craftsmanship is fine, but not Dwarf.” Thori said, looking to Azog for confirmation.

“Orc made.” Azog confirmed, and Thori put the shaft back down, reaching into his satchel to remove a sturdy vial.

“This is my favorite oil blend, for lubrication.” He said, handing it over. Azog accepted it, rubbing a little between his fingers as Thori inspected the rest of the gray and black obsidian shafts. The oil was thick but not sticky – a smooth glide that did not dry. Azog could smell almonds, slightly, but could not place the rest of it. The taste was bland and inoffensive.

The oil he'd _had_ would work, but Thori's offering seemed to be better.

Thori carefully put the last obsidian shaft down, and the scent of his desire was clear as he looked up at Azog, squaring himself solidly.

“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing toward the bed.

It was not a question that required answer with words, Azog smiled as he began unbuckling his clothes. He removed the armor that protected his stomach – this weakest point against opponents usually so much smaller than him – then his belt, and boots, and finally the leathers of his loincloth so he stood bare. Thori had done similarly, tugging his tunic over his head and kicking off his trousers and boots.

He was small, true, but there was a _solidity_ to him that no Orc had. Azog had been with partners less sturdy and done them no damage – and the last of his reservations eased.

Thori's eyes traveled up Azog's body, taking in matched scars he'd not seen before, and finally reached Azog's eyes again. He took Azog's hand in both of his and wordlessly pulled him down onto the bed.

Azog arranged himself on his left side, his weight supported on the elbow of his severed arm and his right hand free to touch. Thori lay facing him, warm hands running over his body, exploring scars and muscles. Azog could only reciprocate.

Thori was covered thickly with hair, more even than Men Azog had laid with, but beneath his muscles were firm and strong. His cock was hard already, proportionate in size to his body, standing out between them, but Azog did not touch yet. Thori ran a thumb across Azog's nipple experimentally, and Azog groaned quiet encouragement, pressing into it firmly. Doing the same to Thori yielded only a very slight reaction – the Dwarf seemed to like best to have his entire body stroked, his muscles kneaded.

It might had been the size and strength of Azog's hand that he liked.

“So _much_ hair...” He mused. How was he to lick the scent from Thori's skin with so much hair in the way? There _were_ places he had no hair, his neck and sides – Azog would have to content himself with those.

“And you have none at all.” Thori answered... he must look strange to Thori, too, if he were used to lovers as hairy as himself.

Thori did not seem to be dissuaded by that, though. He moved closer, wrapping his leg around Azog's to pull their bodies flush together, the warmth of his skin a familiar feeling even if the softness of his hair between them was not.

There did not seem to be any doubt in him, his every touch sure and confident as they continued the exploration of each other's bodies.

 

They had started Thori with his own fingers, to prepare him for Azog's fingers, which prepared him for the first of the obsidian shafts.

Slow and patient preparation had Thori taking the second largest easily now. The Dwarf was spread out on his back, open wide to Azog. Sweat beaded on him, the red of his flush dark on his neck and chest where it could be seen. The thick musk of his desire, blending with Azog's own, was strong enough to _taste_ in the air. Thori moaned as Azog leaned in to lick the scent and his sweat from the muscles of his neck – salt and skin and lust mingling on his tongue. Thori caught him before he could lean back again, sucking at his neck and jaw between gasping breaths, until Azog moved the stone shaft within him again and Thori's body arched around it with a throbbing moan that seemed to come from the core of his being. His limbs trembled weakly, any artistry he'd once had lost in the overwhelming of his senses.

 _This_ Azog enjoyed, nearly as much as what was to come when it was his own body within the tightness and heat of the Dwarf. Thori knew how to relax his muscles to allow another into his body, even if he'd never had something of this size before, or else this would not have been possible.

Azog ground the shaft deep, circling it slowly, drinking in Thori's shattered moans. He was taking it easily – he could likely take the largest now. Azog stilled again to let Thori breathe.

“More?” he asked, and Thori gasped at him a few times before he managed to nod.

“More.” he agreed.

Azog left the second largest shaft inside him as he reached for the largest – oiling it heavily in front of Thori's eyes, and Thori moaned at what he would be taking next – his muscles clenching around the shaft still deep inside him and a clear drop of thick clear liquid weeping from his half-hard cock to join what he'd already left across his stomach. Azog leaned forward quickly to lick it off, to taste the bittersweet musk of it, and Thori moaned again helplessly, cock twitching.

Azog gently eased the shaft from Thori, watching the play of his muscles as they clenched hungrily for it before he pressed the head of the final shaft slowly into him. The stone was still warm – it would help relax him for this final stretch.

It took time, and patience, and a generous amount of Thori's thick oil, to seat the final shaft fully. Azog left it still for a moment, the wide handle flush against Thori's skin, and moved carefully to lay beside him again. He stroked the Dwarf's hot-flushed skin, tasted the sweat of his neck again, felt the strength of Thori's hands as they found his body, gripping tight anywhere they touched. He gasped up at Azog as though he could hardly understand.

“...s'deep.” he finally managed, his voice low and rough, “heavy.” his deep moan was nearly a sob as his body tried to clench on the unyielding stone shaft.

“Too much?” Azog asked.

Thori shook his head, “s'good.” he managed, bright blue eyes wide as he gazed up at Azog. He stroked Thori's body, across his chest, down his stomach and thighs, soothing him as he grew used to the stretch.

“I want _you_.” Thori finally said, when he had gathered himself slightly, his voice still rough.

“Soon.” Azog promised.

“no... let me _touch_.” Thori explained himself, “Let me see. Let me feel. Let me _taste_.” He was reaching as far down Azog's body as he could. It was true Thori had had little chance to reciprocate since they began opening him – Azog did not usually expect that of a lover, not their first time, but if he was _offering_.

He shifted up further in the bed and Thori's hand wrapped around him, the Dwarf moaning again lightly as he began to stroke his cock. His hands were warm and firm as Azog bent over him. He had been hard and untouched for so long, focusing on Thori, the relief of touch almost ached.

Thori tried to reposition himself, but collapsed in a pile of shivers as the motion moved the stone shaft within him.

“Bring it here.” He requested, tugging lightly at Azog's cock as he licked his lips meaningfully. Azog complied, and it seemed Thori _did_ know that trick Azog had been first shown by Men. He licked broad stripes up both sides of Azog's cock before he sucked as much of it as he could into his mouth, bright blue eyes shining up at him from beneath his brows for a moment at Azog's moan.

The heat and slickness of his mouth was agonizingly perfect, though Thori could not take much of his length. He moaned low, the vibration trembling all the way through Azog and his tongue teasing around the head of his cock.

It was good, _so good_ in preparation to enter the heat and depth of him, and Azog held his hips still, did not allow himself his instinctual thrusting.

Thori was small, small enough that Azog could stroke down his whole body – but his hand found itself resting on the handle of the shaft still so deep within the Dwarf's body.

At the first nudge Thori moaned around his cock, pressing him deeper, so Azog had to do it again...

He fucked Thori slowly with the obsidian shaft while Thori sucked him, slick and messy, desperate moans around his cock as the Dwarf bobbed his head and licked and took as much of him as he could... hardly seeming in control of his own arching and trembling body beyond that.

It was forever and far too soon when Thori drew back.

“Now.” He asked hoarsely, _begged_. “Now?”

“Now.” Azog agreed his own voice rough with his desire, and gently drew the stone shaft out of him.

The muscles of his entrance were relaxed and pliable against Azog's fingers as he checked carefully, adding more oil. He stroked a generous amount of oil briefly over his cock before _finally_ beginning to press himself into the Dwarf's body.

He rested over Thori, his weight on his knees and his left elbow, his iron hand turned away to the side of Thori, and his right hand free to stroke the Dwarf soothingly as he pressed slowly inside.

He was tight, so incredibly _tight_ , and the heat of him was almost overwhelming. Azog moaned as he rocked slowly, so slowly in and out, gradually gaining depth, and Thori's moans answered him. Thori's hands were resting on his chest, kneading at Azog's muscles, his nails catching in the divots of his scars. Thori's legs lifted up to wrap around Azog's hips, encouraging him, welcoming him in.

Their bodies met, all of Azog's length buried deep within Thori, and they were both moaning as though it were language and they could communicate all the stories of the world to one another.

Azog's hand slid beneath Thori, lifting the tiny solid Dwarf to press tight against his chest.

As close as two people could _be._

 

Thori had not _known_ it was possible to feel such depth, Azog nestled deep in places no one had ever touched. He had not known he could take such girth without breaking.

He burned with pleasure until it was nearly, nearly but not _quite_ , pain. He was undone, utterly undone so all he was capable of was lying against Azog's chest and _feeling_. His legs were spread wide around the kneeling Orc's body as Azog easily moved him up and down, fucking him on his enormous cock and all Thori could do was moan and feel the flex of Azog's muscles, feel the vibrations of his growls and moans in his chest, listen to the pounding of his heart.

Somewhere far away he knew he was not _like_ this, Thorin was a prince and a prince did not merely _lie there_ and _take_ , but it seemed he was capable of nothing else.

He was not a prince, he was Thori, Thori the Orc's fucktoy and he never wanted it to end, never wanted to be anything else but the trembling moaning creature that rode Azog's cock.

He laughed breathlessly at that thought, or tried to, but Azog had moved so impossibly deep within him and he was moaning again that moan he had no control over because it came out of the very stone of his _soul_.

Azog moved him carefully, reaching around the back of him with his metal claw to support him while he reached between them to take Thori's cock in his huge hand.

Thori whimpered, he wanted it, he wanted it _so badly_ , but it was _so much_...

“I cannot...” he gasped as his body tried to clench down on Azog and he _couldn't_ , too much and too deep and too big and _so good,_ “too big...”

“You can.” Azog rumbled, still thrusting slowly into him as he stroked, and Thori could only shake his head in answer.

“Should I stop?” Azog asked, his hand stilling, and Thori was whining as he thrust up with his hips into Azog's hand.

“Do not stop... no...” he begged, and Azog was laughing low in his chest as he resumed stroking.

Thori's body rocked forward and back, not really in his control, the depth and girth and that stroking hand all blending together, exquisite and overwhelming until it was _too much_ and _never stop_ and so close to pain. He wanted _so desperately_ to finish and he could not with Azog so big, so deep.

Azog's hand clenched tight on Thori's cock, the Orc letting out a choked roar as his body curled around Thori's, his hips jumping forward as he spasmed, and Thori could _feel_ the soft flooding heat of his seed spending _so deep_ within him.

Thori could only moan desperately in answer, and Azog's hand was stroking him again, fast and firm, and still stretching him impossibly big and deep though he did not thrust any more.

“I cannot...” he moaned, his toes curling at the building pressure his body did not know what to _do with_ when he was spread so wide, filled so deep. His body tried at once to get both _more_ and less, squirming on Azog's cock so the Orc growled as his body jerked with aftershocks.

“You _can_.” Azog's deep voice promised, and finally something _broke_ – some edge he'd never known within him reached and he tumbled over. The pleasure was shooting through his body, deadly sharp as he clenched down on the cock inside him, all the heat and pressure in the world spending into Azog's firm-stroking hand, blinding bright and _too much_ and _perfect_.

Thori threw his head back and screamed his climax.

 

Thori lay boneless as Azog cleaned him with a warm damp cloth, and Thori knew from far away that he might have found that unpleasantly infantilizing – but he could not care. He needed to be cleaned up, and Azog had the energy to do that, while he did not.

Azog offered him a drink, more of the spicy Orcish ginger beer, and Thori drank it down eagerly – more thirsty than he'd realized. It was sweeter than what had been served with the meal the day before – perfect for after such exertion.

The Orc lay down beside him, spreading a blanket over them both and pulling Thori close to his chest.

“Rest now.” He said gently, nuzzling in close beneath his beard to lick his pulse – as he seemed fond of doing. Thori shivered at the sensation.

“You say that as though I were capable of anything else.” Thori said, and Azog's laugh rumbled deep in his chest.

“I cannot sleep here, I must be home before dawn.” Thori told him, the temptation to fall asleep strong.

“Rest.” Azog repeated, “I will not let you sleep.” and Thori relaxed in his arms.

Azog touched him gently, running his fingertips in patterns following the grain of his body hair, and Thori found himself reciprocating, following the lines of Azog's muscles and scars.

He traced the scars on Azog's face, warrior's scars and decoration both. He stroked across Azog's bald head to rest his hand on the back of his thick-muscled neck, tugging him slightly forward.

“Dwarves show affection by resting our foreheads together.” He said, as Azog's forehead came to rest against his own, “We might crack our foreheads together in excitement meeting an old friend after a long time, but sharing breath this way is... intimate.”

He was not sure why he'd told him, just that he'd _wanted_ to. It felt good to feel Azog close this way, to breathe of each other's breath for long quiet moments after the intensity of what they had shared.

“Orcs press cheeks.” Azog eventually said, shifting to the side to nestle his cheek alongside Thori's, his breath intimate against Thori's ear, “A brief touch for an acquaintance, a longer snuggle for a lover... your beard is in the way.”

Thori chuckled slightly at that, rubbing his cheek against Azog's. This was nice too, and they stayed pressing cheeks for long moments too.

“Have you ever kissed in the way of Men?” Thori asked. He had a fondness for it, odd as the practice was.

“I have.” Azog answered, drawing back to look at him, he cradled the side of Thori's face in his hand as he leaned in to bring their lips gently together.

It was good, it was warm and close, a new exploration of each other, until Thori answered the first tentative thrust of Azog's tongue with one of his own and felt _sharp teeth_.

He drew back with an instinctive jerk, and Azog was laughing, his impressive teeth on full display. How had Thori forgotten them? His mind still was not clear, his thoughts still muddied with pleasure.

“The Woman who taught me did the same.” he said, leaning forward to tentatively press his forehead against Thori's for a moment. “...I prefer the ways of Orcs and Dwarves.”

Thori made an agreeing hum and resettled himself in Azog's arms to rest a _little_ longer.

 

Azog lounged bare and unashamed on his bed, a monolith of pale skin and muscle, watching as Thori dressed himself to leave. Thori was going to be _sore_ , tender deep where no one _had_ ever or likely _would_ ever touch him again, but nothing he could not mask by moving with _dignity_.

He would never forget how, the day after his first time playing the anvil with a lover, his father had praised him for his poise. Frerin, who had known _why_ , had nearly choked to death on his own suppressed laughter.

He sat down beside Azog to pull his boots on, the Orc running his huge hand affectionately down his back. Thori put the nearly-emptied vial of his favorite oil blend in his satchel and paused before he drew out the second object he'd brought with him.

“I began this weeks ago.” He said, offering it to Azog with both hands. The pale Orc hesitated before he took it, drawing the dark steel dagger from its sheath. It had taken time to figure out how to blacken the metal without weakening it, and getting the balance right for a knife made to fit a hand as large as Azog's, but he'd managed it.

It was a simple knife, the gift of a smith rather than that of a prince or a noble.

Azog turned the blade back and forth, tested the edge cautiously against his thumb, and seemed impressed by what he found – but he still had said nothing, and he looked at Thori past it with a question in his eyes.

“It is designed to go on your belt _here_.” Thori said, reaching over to rest his hand on the small of Azog's back, the skin warm under his hand, “An old traditional gift to a friend – to watch your back for you, while you are far away.”

“I am honored.” Azog finally answered, and Thori nodded to him one last time before he stood to leave, the final time he would get to be Thori in the Orc's presence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent all day writing this and now I'm sexually frustrated.
> 
> -Many thanks to HobbitDragon for consulting, as HD has more experience in such things than I do. Any mistakes are my own.


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trade agreement is signed

The signing of the trade agreement between the free Orcs of Gundabad and Erebor was theatre, and both sides knew it.

The entire Orcish Delegation – diplomats, guards, cooks, and Azog – stood before the royal court while the trade agreement was read aloud.

Thorin had wondered if they would recognize him, but it did not seem they had. He stood among the royal family, dressed in gold and jewels and the line-of-Durin blue that set his eyes off perfectly, and they did not recognize him.

Rukh stood forward to announce who would sign it from the Orcs' side – himself and his subordinate diplomats.

“And General Azog, commander of the free Orcish armies and speaker on the council of elders in Gundabad.” He finished. Azog stepped forward as he was introduced, and the entire Orcish delegation cringed from him respectfully.

His pale eyes swept the court, flexing his huge scarred muscles, daring anyone to challenge him.

 _General_ Azog? And a speaker on the council of elders – Thorin had spent enough time as Thori talking to Azog about how Gundabad was run to know _that_ was a position of power and influence.

 _General_ Azog, who'd spent months in Erebor posing as nothing but the Orc who came to take care of the Wargs while the diplomats did their work.

Thorin schooled his face from the smile it wanted to make, caught his father and the King's eyes, and began to speak in quick and discreet iglishmek.

King Thror had had a lifetime to learn to make adjustments on a moment's notice, he did not lose a beat as he announced who would be signing for the Dwarves' side. The King, of course, and Balin who'd carried the majority of the negotiations, and guild heads who had a stake in it.

“And my grandson, Thorin, second in line to the throne.” Thror introduced, and Thorin stepped forward.

“To show that the steps toward friendship our peoples have taken here will not be quickly forgotten.” He said, and _let_ the whispers of the court ripple out from that.

He _saw_ when Rukh recognized him, the diplomat's eyes widened with a start the moment he began speaking, and Azog's lips twitched in what might have been a smile over his sharp teeth as his eyes met Thorin's, but neither gave any further sign. Most of the other Orcs of the delegation caught on by the time he was done speaking, they glanced at each other wide-eyed, but they were all diplomatic enough to know not to say anything.

It had been a gamble, on Thorin's part.

For all Frerin was known as the reckless prince, Thorin might have him beat.

The signing went as expected, the two parties taking turns, each Dwarf or Orc setting down the quill for the next signer to take up, until there was only Azog and Thorin left.

Azog signed carefully, and Thorin held his hand out for the quill.

“General Azog.” He acknowledged, and there was a small smile playing with Azog's lips to match the one Thorin fought to keep from his own as their eyes met and Azog handed him the quill, their fingers brushing.

“Prince Thorin.” he answered, both of them so formal – as though they had not known each other as intimately as two people could – as though Thorin could not _still_ feel the touch of him deep within him.

Thorin turned to dip the quill and signed both copies of the agreement. That done, they both nodded politely to each other and strode back to their places – Azog with the Orcish delegation, and Thorin with the royal family.

It was over.

After a few more words from Thror, and some from Rukh, the Orcish delegation left. Their Wargs were already packed for their return trip – along with several copies of the agreement in case the official one was damaged.

They were going home.

There would be no more Orcs in Erebor.

Azog turned, following the rest of the delegation out of the audience chamber. Visible at the small of his back, hooked to his belt where it would guard him in a friend's place, was a dagger of blackened steel.

Thorin's maker's mark was small and hidden, but _he_ knew it was his and it warmed him – the work of a future King worn by a General of what might once have been his enemy.

Someday Erebor and Gundabad might be allies as well as trading partners.

Someday there might be friendship between their peoples.

Someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that folks!  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading along. Your comments and kudos kept me going.  
> Thanks to everyone who read it even though it's not their ship.  
> To everyone who's ship it is - I hope you enjoyed it.  
> Please let me know what you thought!  
> Thank you again, you have all been lovely.  
> <3,  
> Ts

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Snowdrops](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3826045) by [Hobbitfing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitfing/pseuds/Hobbitfing)




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